


what lovers do

by starboykeith



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Communication, Courtship, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Omega Keith (Voltron), Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Romantic Tension, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 10:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15047264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starboykeith/pseuds/starboykeith
Summary: Keith has to brace himself for Shiro's presence; for this weird courting-but-not-courting thing they're doing.Quite frankly, he's sick of it.





	what lovers do

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much dot, i hope you like it!
> 
> title from what lovers do by maroon 5

Keith holds his coffee like a lifeline, kicking through the snow and breathing out shakily when he steps into the well-heated building. He’s not a fan of college in winter; it makes him miss home all the more, wishing he could be speeding through the sand back in Arizona, sun beating down and raising freckles on his skin.

He didn’t get much sleep last night, studying for Iverson’s stupid final. Pidge wasn’t around to help him; Keith retains information better hearing it aloud, but it’s difficult in a dorm, having to mutter formulas under his breath and hoping no one thinks he’s talking to himself. Being confident about the exam took longer than he’d thought it would, and he’d stayed up later than he’d meant to.

This is the purported reason for the overpriced coffee. Truthfully, Keith brings one to Iverson’s 9am every week.

“Keith!”

Keith’s truly not in the mood for Shiro’s sunny smile and shining eyes. It’s the pressure, really: early morning is hardly the best time for everyone’s favourite alpha to do his whole courting-while-not-courting Keith thing.

Shiro isn’t even in his class; he has a lecture in the same corridor. However, while Keith is always _just_ on time, he has it on good authority that Shiro is ten minutes early to everything, and waits for Keith to the point of risking lateness himself. This is definitive proof, Pidge says, that Shiro will propose any day now.

“Hey, Shiro.” Keith is genuinely shocked his tone hasn’t scared Shiro off yet, but Shiro’s smile only gets bigger.

“You have a final today, right?” Keith nods. “You’re gonna do great,” Shiro reassures, putting his hand briefly on Keith’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Shiro.” Shiro squeezes before letting go, and Keith has to swallow against his dry throat. “See you at lunch?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. He subtly checks his watch, and Keith does the same, hiding his smile when he sees it’s 9:01. “I’m buying,” Shiro adds, and before Keith can object, Shiro sets a brisk pace for his lecture hall.

Keith aces his final, he’s sure of it, and feels a lot more alive with caffeine in his veins. He finds the table his group have commandeered for today, and slides in next to Shiro.

“Wow, Keith,” Pidge says, an evil glint in her eyes. “You’re practically grinning.”

“Final went well?” Matt asks, and Keith lets his smile go a little smug.

“Yep.”

“Knew you could do it,” Shiro says, pride in his voice. “Oh hey, I got you – “

Pidge groans. “You shouldn’t encourage his grilled cheese addiction.”

Keith takes the paper packet, something in his chest feeling funny and warm. “Thank you,” he says. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Shiro it’s not _actually_ his favourite food in all the world.

This is yet another example of Shiro’s courting-but-not-courting; he’ll buy Keith coffee and lunch, walk too close beside him, touch him constantly. It’s like they’re in limbo. Sometimes he wishes Shiro would be quieter about it, and other times he wishes Shiro would come right out and ask to court him. Keith hates the feeling of eyes on them whenever they talk; even if it’s a completely mundane conversation about the weather, someone will be giggling in the distance.

“You could ask him,” Pidge suggests later, for the millionth time. Her meaningful words are interspersed with the roars of the dragon she’s fighting onscreen. “It’s not all about the alpha asking the omega anymore, is it?”

Keith’s chest feels tight, and he turns his character in circles as Pidge continues her animal abuse. “I would,” he says truthfully. He’s not afraid to pursue what he wants; Shiro is just – different. “But – I could be wrong.”

Pidge groans. “You’re not wrong. And I refuse to have this conversation _again_. Help me beat this boss instead of standing around.”

“Maybe he’s just not a confrontational guy,” Keith says. He helps out as best as he can, but secretly he thinks Pidge only brings him on these missions to make him feel better.

“You’re a confrontational guy.” Keith can’t even deny it. Pidge cheers as the dragon falls to the ground. “Listen,” she says. “Me and Matt think you should go for it. And you know Matt knows Shiro.”

“Hmm.”

“Matt’s probably seen the notebooks saying ‘Mr Keith Shirogane’ – hey, you can’t hit a girl!”

 

* * *

 

Keith taps his foot restlessly. He’s early – Shiro isn’t late – but Keith feels oddly exposed in the student bar by himself, aware of admiring eyes glancing up and down his figure. He hasn’t dressed up for Shiro, because it’s _not_ a date, but black skinny jeans and a red tank top always gets him a second look. Pidge told Keith his arms look good in this shirt, and he’s got to admit she’s right.

A touch to his elbow makes him jump. “Keith,” Shiro says warmly. “Buy you a drink?”

Keith’s hopes of providing for himself tonight are quickly dashed. Not that he expected anything different. He hugs his jacket to him and almost gives the bartender an apologetic look as Shiro orders, but then it occurs to Keith that Shiro’s bought his drinks nearly every single time they’ve come here.

 _God damn it_.

They find a table in the corner, quieter and more secluded than the booth their group regularly goes for. It feels intimate despite drunken yells and chattering from further down the bar, and Keith sips his Guinness to have an excuse to break eye contact.

He’s careful to wipe off the moustache of foam before Shiro can poke fun at him for it.

“No college talk tonight,” Shiro says. “I’m stressed as hell, and there’s only one thing that can make it better.”

His tone makes Keith look up, and he flushes at the intense look in Shiro’s eyes. “What?” he asks cautiously.

“Alcohol,” Shiro says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Keith exhales heavily.

“Being around you definitely makes me want to drink,” he says, too truthfully, and takes another swig as Shiro acts mock-offended.

It’s never been hard to talk to Shiro, and Keith realises it’s been ages since they’ve hung out just them, what with college and finals and – maybe Keith’s been avoiding him, just a little. But he feels okay tonight, more capable of dealing with Shiro’s overwhelming presence, his insistence on providing, his scent that’s a little too much like _home_.

At that thought, Keith switches to rum and coke, Shiro’s raised eyebrows be damned.

“We haven’t been into town for a while,” Shiro says thoughtfully. He doesn’t mean their college town – he means the one a little further away, the one that has a beach and a boardwalk and takes about forty-five minutes to get to on his motorbike. Forty-five minutes that Keith’s pressed to his back, arms around his middle, warm despite the cold rush of the wind whipping past them.

The trips filtered out just before Christmas, as deadlines and exams rained down on them both – particularly Shiro, senior year making him feel like the walls are closing in. He tells Keith this again, false chuckle not quite covering his anxiety, and Keith touches his hand. His prosthetic, Keith realises as Shiro’s gaze flickers down nervously.

“You’re doing great,” Keith says honestly, and a real smile tugs at Shiro’s lips. “They’ll probably name a library after you, or something.”

“Shut up,” Shiro says, but he’s laughing.

“And remember, patience – “

“Yields focus,” they say at the same time, and Shiro goes pink. Keith studies him and suddenly sees pale, sparse freckles on Shiro’s nose he’s never noticed before. _Cute_ , Keith thinks, oddly thrilled to have this information, like it’s his secret and not something anyone could notice.

“Freckles,” he says out loud, like an idiot.

Shiro blushes even harder. “You can talk.”

Keith rubs his nose, embarrassed. “It’s my desert roots.”

“I’ve never been to Arizona.”

There’s something about the way Shiro says it, tentative and hopeful, that makes Keith look up. He pushes down his natural suspicion and thinks about it, showing Shiro his home.

When his dad died, Keith thought he’d have to leave, thought the memories would be too much to bear. It was easier than he’d thought, though, fixing up the things his dad hadn’t bothered with, choosing wallpaper chips and carpet squares like he was playing homemaker, bringing light and air and colour into the little shack where they’d muddled along for so many years. It is a place he’d like to show Shiro, Keith thinks suddenly. The sun would do him good. Shiro’s never liked the cold.

“I’d like to show you it,” Keith says, and they share a warm look that makes him panic and blurt out, “It’d be cool.” He never uses the word _cool_. He’s grateful when Shiro lets it slide.

It’s a bit of a blur after that; college talk is banned and Keith thinks of nothing but Shiro’s eyes, getting brighter and brighter with every drink, his hands gesturing as he talks, voice low but clear in the dim noise of the bar.

Keith gets a little more giggly and unmanageable than he’d planned, and he laughs at Shiro’s exasperated look as Keith evades capture once again.

“Keith Kogane,” Shiro says authoritatively, and Keith’s breath hitches. Shiro doesn’t notice, continuing, “I wish you had a middle name. So it would sound more like I was telling you off.”

“You don’t have a middle name,” Keith points out, moving closer and ducking Shiro’s hand as it comes to ruffle his hair.

“I don’t really need one, when it’s,” Shiro counts on his fingers, “ _seven_ syllables already.”

“True.” Keith sits on the picnic bench outside the bar. Muffled music booms from inside, and Keith recognises the beat of one of the trashy pop songs Shiro pretends not to like. Shiro sits beside him and succeeds in ruffling Keith’s hair.

“I wish we could see the stars,” Keith says, tipping his head back. He glances at Shiro, whose gaze snaps guiltily up. It’s a cheap omega trick, raising your chin to expose your neck, and Keith flushes upon realising his mistake. “You can see them all back home,” he continues quickly.

“Wow,” Shiro says under his breath, as though he hadn’t meant Keith to hear it at all. He’s a city boy, used to noise and pollution, and Keith’s longing to show Shiro his home increases. They stare at the sky a while, even though there’s nothing to see, and Keith catalogues the feel of Shiro’s body, pressed close beside him on the long bench, and the slow calm of his breathing.

Shiro insists on walking him home, a hand at his elbow to catch Keith each time he stumbles. Keith stumbles a lot. After the third time, he can’t even tell if he’s doing it on purpose.

“This is a long walk,” Keith notes absently.

“Yeah.” Shiro sounds amused. “I’m surprised you usually get home safely by yourself.”

“I don’t usually, uh – indulge.” Keith flushes at his use of the word. “Do you indulge, Shiro?”

Shiro chuckles. “Not if I can help it.” It also helps, Keith thinks, that Shiro can hold his alcohol much better than the rest of them. Keith’s never had to walk _Shiro_ home, put it that way.

“College is hard,” Keith says. “I don’t know what I’d do without Pidge.” Shiro exhales loudly, like he was holding his breath. Keith continues, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” and Shiro’s breathing does the funny little hitch again.

“Yeah?” Shiro says, and he’s still touching Keith, a hand on his arm, but he’s looking into the distance. Keith stares hard in the darkness, imagining he can see the freckles on Shiro’s nose. “Me neither.”

“You don’t know what you’d do without yourself?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Shiro says it frankly, with no room for argument, and his steadfast tone makes Keith’s chest feel tight and warm.

“Oh,” he says softly, and curls his fingers into a fist to stop them shaking.

His building comes too soon – Keith could walk in half-darkness with Shiro at his side forever, talking about nothing – but Shiro comes inside with him, and doesn’t even complain about taking the stairs.

Keith’s oddly aware of Shiro behind him as he unlocks his room, and it’s nearly difficult to turn around and face him.

They pause in the doorway, and Keith almost feels shy.

He’s flushed with alcohol, but his fingers are trembling from something else. It’s hard to meet Shiro’s eyes, but he manages it. Shiro’s gaze is bright and intense and Keith’s swallow is audible in the charged silence.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“Guess this is where I leave you,” Shiro says softly.

“Guess it is,” Keith says lamely.

Shiro’s hand comes up to clasp Keith’s shoulder, and then – Keith’s _certain_ he didn’t imagine it, couldn’t possibly be so arrogant as to assume that Shiro’s quiet inhale was him _scenting_ Keith.

Keith’s cheeks burn. Shiro squeezes his shoulder and lets go.

“Make sure you drink some water,” he says, and Keith almost doesn’t hear him, straining to listen for the sound of Shiro’s breathing instead, desperate to prove to himself – what? That Shiro thought of him as more than a friend, thought of him as an _omega_ ; someone to be desired.

“I will.”

“Good,” Shiro says, and the praise runs through Keith like a shock, and then Shiro’s turning, leaving; Keith watches his broad silhouette move away in the shadowed hallway, eyes wide and body tense.

“Goodnight,” he calls after him.

“Night, Keith,” comes the answer.

Keith stays awake, hazy brain tossing out hypotheticals – does Shiro think of him like a mate? Like a partner? Does Shiro think of him in the couple days he’s absent for his heats; does he think of Keith flushed with desire in a rumpled bed?

 _Stupid_ , Keith thinks, even as his hand wanders beneath the sheets.

In the following days, it’s obvious nothing’s changed between them; Shiro’s the same as always, eyes and hands lingering too long but his words the casual chatter of friends, and Keith stops holding his breath for a repeat performance.

 _It’s fine_ , he tells himself. It never means anything; it’s predictable, ordinary, _normal_.

 

* * *

 

Keith’s eyes could kill everything in his path today.

Really, it’s his own fault. He’s perfectly aware that Wednesday night should be an early one, considering Thursday’s 9am with Iverson, but Pidge dragged him out anyway, so now Keith is exhausted and hungover and lacking in coffee.

Frankly, he’s impressed that he’s even left the dorm at all, but Keith’s scrupulous about his attendance and making the most of his shitty overpriced college, so here he is. He’s even early today.

And there’s Shiro.

Keith debates completely ignoring him. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Shiro would take it in his stride; Keith isn’t always in the mood to talk, but it’s usually not hangover-related.

“Hey, Shiro,” he says tiredly anyway, because the guilt of ignoring Shiro would crush him.

“Hey,” Shiro says. He sounds wary, and Keith regrets not glancing in the mirror this morning.

“Pidge dragged me out,” Keith says in explanation.

“Ah.” Shiro’s hiding a smile, and Keith tries not to find it unbearably cute. “Would you like the rest of my coffee?”

Keith should say no. He’s sick of all these pseudo-courting gifts and this pseudo-courting and this pseudo fucking relationship, but he also resembles a zombie today, so he takes it.

It’s overly sweet, because Shiro pours approximately a mountain of sugar into his drinks, and Keith physically restrains his wince, if only because Shiro looks so earnest. It’s his expression that gets to Keith most, because it’s like he’s given a gift and is waiting anxiously to see if it’s good enough.

Keith wonders if one of the first courting gifts he’s ever received will really be a secondhand, painfully sweet coffee, and in that moment it really gets to him.

“What do you _want_ , Shiro?”

“What?” His confusion turns Keith’s frustration to anger in a matter of seconds.

“You do these nice things and buy me stuff and hell, sometimes I swear you’re fucking scenting me, but you don’t _do_ anything about it. You don’t – it’s like you want all the status of having an omega but you won’t come out and commit.”

Keith’s voice echoes in the hallway as his voice gets louder, and it makes him even more ashamed than the look on Shiro’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, because it’s already eating him alive, and then he turns tail and escapes into his lecture hall.

Keith skips lunch. He microwaves soup in his dorm’s common room for dinner and locates his bread, picking off the green spots and deciding it probably won’t kill him. Pidge has been texting him, but the thing about Pidge and Matt’s close relationship is that Keith can’t be sure his words won’t make it back to Shiro somehow, and ignores her too.

He closed the notification from Shiro as soon as it came.

He’s grateful for the first time that they never bothered learning each other’s timetables – only checking they could all eat lunch around one – and makes it to his Friday classes without incident. Then it’s the weekend, and Keith studies and wastes time on his laptop and naps without speaking to anyone. It’s hard as always to study alone, but he has his phone read to him, and he can almost pretend it’s as good as studying with Pidge.

 

* * *

 

9pm on Sunday, and Keith congratulates himself on a job well done.

Then comes the knock on his door.

It’s not like he didn’t expect this eventually, but – it’s only been three days, Keith thinks, and then realises his definition of a disappearance is much different to a regular person’s. His dad was never gone for anything less than a week in Keith’s youth, and Keith guesses that might’ve skewed his perceptions a little.

He gets up and opens it, knowing even before he does that it’s Shiro, and breathing in Shiro’s scent and looking into warm grey eyes is like coming home.

“Shiro,” Keith says as frostily as he can, despite everything in him relaxing at the sight of Shiro. It’s almost difficult to remember his frustration until Shiro takes an unmistakable breath in and Keith scowls at him. “Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says immediately, mollifying Keith slightly. “I just – three days, Keith? You can’t just do that to us.” He pauses. “Not to Pidge and Matt, anyway.”

Keith swallows the guilt rising in his throat. “I’ll text her,” he says reluctantly. He sends _I’m alive, sorry, talking to Shiro now_ and the response comes almost instantly, bringing a small smile to Keith’s face.

“You wanna come in?” Keith asks after a moment. These doorways were not made for someone of Shiro’s build to lounge in, and it’s almost funny to watch his attempt at a casual lean.

“Sure.”

Shiro sits on the bed, and Keith wavers between sitting next to him and retreating to the safety of his desk chair. The decision is made when Shiro pats the space next to him.

Keith sits cautiously, back ramrod straight and arms folded neatly across his chest, as though Shiro won’t notice him if he tries being as unobtrusive as possible.

“So,” Shiro starts, and Keith accidentally looks at him the second he bites his lip, which is painfully distracting. Keith swallows and stares a hole into the carpet instead. “So, I – I’m nervous.” Shiro’s laugh is thin, and Keith wonders for the first time if maybe this situation has been hard on him too.

“Don’t be,” he tries, even though part of him is smug and satisfied that Shiro’s nervous; _good_ , he thinks, because Keith’s been walking on eggshells for months and Shiro deserves a taste of his own medicine. At the same time, it hurts to hear Shiro – cool, confident Shiro – at a loss for words.

“I guess I thought about this a lot,” Shiro tries again, “but I thought you’d be more… receptive.”

“I’m receptive,” Keith says, offended, and makes an effort to uncross his arms.

Shiro touches his shoulder, and Keith exhales and relaxes his posture.

“Maybe I’m nervous too,” he says to the floor, and Shiro’s hand squeezes briefly before moving away.

“Okay,” Shiro says, and he sounds like he’s steadying himself. “I like you, Keith.”

The thing is, Keith _knows_ that. Has known for a while. But hearing it out of Shiro’s mouth is different, brings a smile to his lips and a stupid flush to his cheeks.

“I like you too,” he makes himself say. They’re both huge cowards, he knows, so this is kind of a monumental moment, but he laughs without meaning to and then they’re both laughing, relief and happiness and maybe a sense of how foolish they’ve been all these months.

Keith’s gaze catches on Shiro’s dimples, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and before Keith can stop himself he leans up and kisses him. Shiro’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and Keith squeezes his eyes shut and wishes the moment would never end.

“I thought – maybe I was wrong,” Shiro says when they pull back.

“It’s only ever been you, you idiot,” Keith says, and the _relief_ on Shiro’s face – Keith almost feels guilty.

“I’m yours, too,” Shiro says. It’s a very un-alpha thing to say, and that’s what makes Keith kiss him again, hands going to Shiro’s shoulders and pressing him down until they’re horizontal. Shiro opens his mouth first, tongue flicking across Keith’s bottom lip and Keith opens for him easily, sighing when Shiro’s hand pushes into his hair and lowers to the nape of his neck, fingers rubbing the skin there. Keith hates being a _typical_ omega but the touch soothes him, gentles him in a way he’d never known he needed.

“Never took you for someone who makes their bed,” Shiro comments when they pull back again, and Keith laughs, ducking his head against Shiro’s neck and pressing soft kisses there.

“Watch it,” he says.

“I’m watching it,” Shiro says, and his hands move and he’s flipping them over and kissing Keith again, harder and hotter than their previous gentle exploration and Keith moans, hands coming to clutch at Shiro’s back. He means to say something, but Shiro moves to kiss his neck in long presses and Keith aches to be marked, to have everyone know he’s _Shiro’s_.

Shiro shifts, one hand cupping Keith’s face and the other braced on the mattress, and then his thigh slides between Keith’s legs and they both freeze.

Keith goes completely still, fingers bunching up Shiro’s shirt. A blush rises to his face at the knowledge that Shiro can feel he’s hard, and Keith is almost ashamed to be so turned on just from kissing until he moves and suddenly knows that Shiro’s hard too.

“Is this okay?” Keith asks. He swallows hard.

“Hey, I should be asking you that,” Shiro says worriedly, shifting his weight from Keith.

“I’m fine,” Keith says quickly. He’s trying not to take in the vision of Shiro looming over him right now, Keith pinned and at his mercy.

“Keith,” Shiro starts, and Keith takes a deep breath and rolls his hips up.

Shiro swears. Keith doesn’t think he’s ever heard Shiro swear before.

“Do you want to?” Shiro says breathily, and okay, it’s not what Keith expected, but hell if he’s going to say no.

He holds Shiro’s earnest gaze, shifting his grip and flipping them over and relishing Shiro’s momentary surprise before he grins easily.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, and kisses him.

They kiss a while longer, nerves showing in shaky hands and delicate touches. Keith’s grateful when Shiro makes the first move, reaching for the hem of Keith’s shirt and waiting for his nod before stripping it off.

From there it’s easier, and by the time they’re both down to boxers they’re flushed and panting, positions reversed at some point so Shiro’s all broad shoulders and taut muscles as he holds himself above Keith and traces two fingers down Keith’s happy trail to the waist of his boxers.

Keith blurts out, “Stop teasing,” and helps Shiro get him out of them, thrilled at the hitch in Shiro’s breath. “You too,” he adds, and Shiro _smirks_ and obeys.

It’s Shiro who reaches down first, and Keith moans and thrusts into the tentative curl of Shiro’s fingers, rough and demanding. Shiro’s eyes are dark and reverent when Keith brings himself to look at his face, and it makes him want to look away, because such awe can’t be meant for him.

Shiro swears when Keith takes him in hand too, hiding his face in Keith’s neck and pressing his nose to the pulse point. _He’s scenting me_ , Keith realises quickly, and a warm shiver travels through his whole body. He tightens his grip, moves his hand a little faster and Shiro does the same and Keith’s heels slip on the bed as he tries to spread his legs wider, gasping and shutting his eyes and Shiro _stops_.

Keith whines before he can help himself, and Shiro’s expression is tinged with smugness when he looks up.

Shiro pauses long enough that Keith wonders if something’s wrong, but all thoughts fly out of his head when Shiro murmurs, “Have you got any…”

“Any?” Keith prompts, but he knows what Shiro wants, cheeks flooding red. Shiro’s slight smile widens to a smirk. “Bedside table,” Keith says, giving in immediately.

“I’ve felt so guilty,” Shiro says, fumbling the lube from the drawer and over his fingers as Keith bites his collarbone, “the thoughts I’ve had about you, Keith – “

“Tell me,” Keith orders, the thought of it sending heat rushing through him.

Shiro stammers for a moment, and Keith tenses as Shiro’s fingers skate over his chest and his cock and come to rest between his legs, tracing little circles. “I thought about the sounds you’d make,” Shiro says suddenly, and then his fingers rub over Keith’s hole and Keith moans helplessly. He’s leaking steadily, wet and getting wetter at the sound of Shiro’s voice. “Just like that,” Shiro says, hushed, and he keeps doing it, keeps drawing little pathetic noises from Keith like he’s playing an instrument.

“What else?” Keith asks breathlessly, even though he’s not sure he can handle the answer.

Shiro presses the words into Keith’s neck, mouth hot on the skin there. “Wondered if you’d get wet for me.”

Keith blushes then, because Shiro must have known – certainly knows, now, his fingers rubbing incessantly at Keith’s hole, sloppy with slick and lube and Shiro starts pressing one finger inside.

“Fuck,” Keith gasps, breaths coming quick and fast and Shiro adds another finger and slows his movements, touch gentle and exploratory. Keith’s hands follow the curve of Shiro’s back, the wings of his shoulder blades, around to his chest, stroking the hard muscle there, and Shiro laughs against his mouth and kisses him again. He can feel the fast beating of Shiro’s heart but he looks calm, in control, and Keith lets himself be swept up in sensation and scent.

“You’re so wet,” Shiro whispers, awed, and Keith moans and casts around for Shiro’s other hand, annoyed to find their positions won’t let him hold it.

“Can I sit in your lap?” he asks quickly, and Shiro’s eyes go wide.

Keith’s painfully empty for a moment as Shiro withdraws and moves so he’s half-leant against the headboard. Keith climbs eagerly into his lap, knees spread around Shiro’s thighs, and braces himself with one hand on Shiro’s chest. Now he’s the one straining to keep upright, and Keith finds a rhythm thrusting back on Shiro’s fingers, clenching around them just to hear the catch in his already uneven breathing.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Shiro blurts out the first time Keith does this, and Keith’s toes curl in the sheets. And then Shiro crooks his fingers just so, and the noise that leaves Keith’s mouth is more like a _sob_.

“Shiro,” he pants, and Shiro looks far too pleased with himself and does it again, rubs his fingers over Keith’s prostate insistently and Keith’s eyes squeeze shut because it feels _too_ good, too much. He realises he’s close all at once, tension singing through every nerve, nails digging into Shiro’s shoulder. “I’m gonna – I can’t – “

He lets his head hang down, too heavy to hold up, and Shiro tips his chin up, gaze intent on Keith’s face. “That good?”

“Yeah,” Keith says breathlessly.

“You gonna show me how good, huh?” Shiro pulls out a little but it’s just to give Keith a third finger and it feels so much bigger, the stretch better than anything Keith’s ever managed on his own, and Keith thinks suddenly about how big Shiro’s cock would be inside him and whimpers, grabbing for Shiro’s hand. All he can manage in reply is a shaky nod, thighs trembling, holding on tight to the edge of the precipice.

“C’mon, baby,” Shiro’s murmuring, voice rough with use, “show me, come for me,” and it’s with a final twist of his fingers that Keith lets go, coming hot between them with a breathless moan, Shiro’s name lost in it as he tries to catch his breath. He lets himself fall, too, leaning hard on Shiro and the mattress and panting like he’s run a race.

“Oh my God,” he manages after a minute – possibly two – and feels the rumble of Shiro’s chuckle under his ear. And then Shiro shifts a little, and Keith feels the length of him hard against his hip, and goes hot with embarrassment.

Keith looks into Shiro’s eyes when he takes him in hand, and Shiro bites his lip hard, eyes squeezing shut. “You felt so good,” Keith tells him softly, setting a fast rhythm and relishing the ragged edge to Shiro’s breathing.

Shiro’s hand comes up to grip Keith’s arm, and Keith shivers when he opens his eyes: a thin ring of grey around pupils blown wide open.

“I think about you too,” Keith says, finding he can’t quite look at Shiro when he says it. Shiro’s cock twitches in his hand, and his muffled moan spurs Keith on. “When I’m in heat,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the vein, “when you walked me home from the bar – “

“Fuck, Keith,” Shiro says hoarsely, dragging him closer for a kiss that’s all teeth, hot and messy. Keith squeezes a little on the upstroke and Shiro comes, moaning against Keith’s mouth in a way that makes Keith wonder if he could go again.

Keith surreptitiously wipes his hand on the sheet and moves from Shiro’s lap, hovering uncertainly until Shiro reaches for him and pulls Keith close to his side. Keith rests his head on Shiro’s shoulder, throat tight with everything he wants to say and isn’t sure if he can. Shiro’s chest rises and falls with quick breaths, and then he laughs and buries his face in Keith’s hair.

“What?” Keith says mildly. He takes Shiro’s hand, just because it’s there.

“I’m happy,” is the answer, and Keith’s cheeks go hot.

“Me too,” he says.

He reckons this isn’t the time to hit Shiro with a “What are we?” but for whatever reason, Keith thinks it’s all gonna be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> new hc keith is bad at video games and pidge regularly kicks his ass
> 
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed, and you can find me on twitter at twitter.com/starboysheith and tumblr at starboykeith.tumblr.com !


End file.
